Love Blooms In Darkness
by AResidentGhost
Summary: Sequel to Unforgiven Monster. Will two lonely souls grow to love each other, or will fate tear them apart? Christoph is not who you think he is... Fin! Look for more of this storyline that is quickly becoming a series soon!
1. I: Life Has Changed

My life has changed drastically since the kidnapping. I have become more wary and frightened of strangers and social events. I believe I have become paranoid. Perhaps a change of scene will do me good? I shall try it at least. I must let the staff at Shadowlocke know to prepare for my return. Paris just does not have the same appeal as it once did. It is a shame, I know. But it cannot be helped, and believe me, I've tried.

I'll need to travel light, in order to avoid suspicion or attract attention that is unwanted. For who knows? Someone's already tried it once, and who is to say it won't happen again? I certainly won't. The rest of my stuff I shall have brought to the estate later, after I have arrived and settled in once again.


	2. II: Straight To Sleep

I am so tired from my journey back home. All I want to do is sleep. I just hope I will not have anymore of the nightmares, which have plagued me since that unfortunate incident. God, I wish they would go away. I haven't really had a good night's sleep since the incident.

Tonight, though, I am actually going to get a full night's sleep no matter what it takes. I have already seen a doctor about this when I was still in Paris. He prescribed some sleeping pills for me to take if the nightmares did not go away. I haven't used them yet, as I am afraid of becoming addicted and also being unable to react in time if something else happened. But I will tonight. I cannot take another sleepless night. The lack of sleep is probably butchering what there is of my good health!

I skip my mail that I have accumulated over my period of absence and head straight for my master bedroom. I can barely keep my eyes open, and it is but five in the afternoon! I truly am tired. I go over to the windows and pull the curtains closed. I don't even bother getting undressed and changed into my nightclothes. As soon as I lay my head upon the pillows, I am asleep.


	3. III: Nightmares

_I find myself back in that room again. _I must be dreaming. _Stripped of all clothes of mine except my underwear. I struggle and struggle, but all that happens is that I get more and more tired and weak. In my dream, I fall asleep, unconscious._

_And then the scene changes. I am young, barely a teenager, and I am no longer female. I am male and have the corresponding "package". A child is what I am, run away from home, aware of my hideous appearance._

_I find myself in a cage in a gypsy camp. Behind bars! I want to scream, but am too afraid. I see before my eyes a large crowd, and they are dressed oddly. I feel my arms and legs are bound, and a mask, my mask, is but a simple one of cloth or leather, upon my face. I see a large hand reach in front of my face and rip off the protective mask. In reflex, I turn and try to hide my corpse face from the prying eyes. I feel my head yanked up and turned towards the crowds violently._

_I whimper, and close my eyes as I see the women in the audience faint and hear the their screams._

The dream fades to be replaced once again by the incident…

_I am in my room again, but I am not alone. I do not know how I know this, but I do. I see no one there, no shapes in the shadows. Then two or three figures coalesce from the darkness of the shadows._

_Their eyes are red, like pits of hellfire. Their mouths open in the darkness, the insides glow a cherry red. Some of their mouths just keep getting bigger and bigger. They keep getting distorted again and again. Some of their tongues stick out of their mouths and are forked like a reptile's._

_I scream and try to stab them, but am unsuccessful. I run, run like the wind, but end up stuck in a mud pit it seems. And the shadow figures are gaining on me!_


	4. IV: Wake Up!

"Wake up!"

"Wake up, please!"

I feel someone shaking me. My first reaction is to reach out and slap the person. My palm connects with a meaty _whack!_ _Oh no, whom did I hit?_ I open my sore and groggy eyes. It is Anne Tolet, _Papillion's _daughter.

I do not have my mask on! _Mon dieu!_ _Is she not frightened? _"Are you not frightened? Does not my horrible visage make you faint of heart?" I ask of her.

"_Non_, master. You are no monster, especially not just because of your unfortunate looks," she answers.

"Why did you come in here?"

"I heard a scream," Anne concedes. "I did not know if you were in trouble. When I came inside, I saw you tossing and turning upon your bed. You were having a nightmare, a terribly bad dream."

"Is that why you braved entering my room when I was asleep knowing full well of my wrath? Especially when I do not have my mask?" My voice rises in pitch and force. "Or did you just want to see for yourself? Did you? Are you _satisfied_ now that you've seen the horror of my accursed face?"

"No," she answers rather meekly. "I did not come to gape at you. I have told you the truth. Besides it is not like I did not already know. Mama told me already about what you look like. She told me, in fact, a long time ago. But I just came to help out today, so I did not know. I'm sorry…"

"You are forgiven. You did not know. Now go. I have work to do."


	5. V: Someone Here To See You

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," a servant interrupts my concentration on the novel I am currently reading.

""What is it now?" I growl.

"I hate to interrupt, but there is a person, a man, at the door."

"So? Is there any real need to bother me? You know my policy," I spit. "_No one allowed in without an appointment made prior to his or her arrival! _No exceptions."

He shrinks back, cringing at the force of my tirade. "But, sir! He refuses to leave until he sees you! _He says he knows you already."_

"I shall see to this matter myself. Go."

I look out the window by the great doors. Ah, I know that person! _Erik_ perks u-p from the bottom of my soul. _Could it be?_ He wonders. "Who?" I ask my soul. _Could it really be the Daroga?_

I open the door, and say, "Come in, monsieur, come in. You are always welcome, Christoph. My apologies, it has been a very trying time for me lately."

"That is okay, _mon ami_. No offense has been taken," Christoph Leon quips.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I was hoping he would not be angry with me. After all, I think I may actually be falling in love with him. My soul, so ancient and thirsty for love, wildly supports this idea.

"Thank you. Whenever you come again, you can just come in if I am home. So what brings you around to my place?"

"Thought you might like to catch up on the gossip of the town…"


	6. VI: Short Interlude

Not once has Christoph seen what lies behind my mask. Will he be like all the others, and scream in horror or reject me once again? Would he still visit if he knew the truth?

I know that I should not worry, but I cannot help it. I've practically been cast out of _human_ society based solely upon my looks—which I really do not have much, if any, control over. I thought humanity had moved on since the _nineteenth_ century. But I can tell you personally that they pretty much haven't.


	7. VIII: Strangers In The Garden

I am out in the gardens, enjoying the fresh air, sunshine, and the beautiful plants surrounding me. Beauty's irony does not escape me. For a beautiful thing does not often live forever. Eventually it breaks, the beauty fade and dulls, or the thing itself dies. In death, we are all made equals. I forget who said or wrote that, bur it does fit, does it not? Death is truly the great equalizer. _God_ is not, but Death is.

I have taken off the mask, which I usually wear when I go out, so that I can fully catch the sun's warm, healthful rays. It does not matter—no matter how long I am out in the sun, exposed to her rays, I do not tan nor burn. Odd, wouldn't you say? Especially with my pale skin… Ah, but I should not question this seemingly mysterious fact.

I hear whispers. Where? I listen closer. There! Behind those bushes! Using all my "power of quietness", I sneak over behind the said bushes and then behind the intruders.

I clear my throat. That seems to get their attention. They are all just a couple of young neighborhood hooligans. Two boys, no older than fifteen, and a girl, perhaps a year younger than the boys. They turn around and their eyes go wide.

"It's a zombie!" Whispers the shorter of the two boys. "Wait 'till we tell Marc and Luc! They'll never believe us!"

The taller boy tells him to quiet.

"You're right," I say. "They never will believe you. Because I am no zombie. A _living corpse_, maybe, but not a zombie. Now what were you doing hiding behind the bushes in _my_ gardens?"

"Your gardens, sir," the little girl asks. "I'm sorry. I thought no one lived here anymore except perhaps a ghost or two."

"Nah, I am no _ghost_. It's okay for you, as you did not know. _As for you two boys, _why _were you spying on me?"_ I hiss in their ears.

"We were on a dare, sir," the smaller of the two answers.

"Shut up, _Pierre_," warns the taller one. "Actually, we were told this place was inhabited by a zombie or a corpse, and Pierre and me wanted to see if it was true or not."

"Well, young sirs, I am afraid that whoever told you that was _dead_ wrong," I say. _I have to stop those rumors…_ I think to myself. "Now where do you live?"

They tell my driver and me in order to bring the tow boys home, while I will bring the girl home myself. I quickly write two letters for the boys' parents and hand them to the driver. I ask the girl if she would like a ride on a horse back home. She is delighted, I tell her to wait a minute. I go and put one of my flesh-colored masks on.

"Who are you?" she asks when I return.

"Don't be silly," I tease as I take it off to show her it is just me in a mask.

"Why do you wear a mask, sir?"

"Because not everyone is as tolerant of those who are different (like me) as you are, little one," I admit.

"You can call me Annabelle, sir."

"Well then. Come on, Annabelle. Let's get you home."


	8. VIII: A Ride Through The Woods

I reign in the mare we are riding. She obeys promptly without me having to say anything. Normally when I ride her, I don't use a full bridle and tack, other than a blanket. She trusts me and I trust her. She's coal black with white stockings and a white star, with a pronounced Arabian descent. She is very, very beautiful, but no one but me can usually ride her. She simply doesn't let them.

"Wow!" Annabelle exclaims. "I did not know about this path in the woods."

"Ah, there are many such paths in these woods, and many are forgotten. I found this one when I was young, as I had little else to do besides explore."

"So you are the one the tales of the _Ghostly Skeleton Rider of the Woods_ are based on!"

"I would not know. I had little outside contact when I was young besides Grandpapa's servants, the newspaper, and books in the library. I have garnered more contact with the world since Grandpapa died. Have you ever been to Paris, Anabelle?"

"No, sir. Come inside, you have to meet mama and papa."

Does she not worry about getting into trouble for talking to a stranger and, even worse, bringing one home? Particularly one that looks like me? I help her down off the mare I call Nightstar. She runs off towards the house. Before going inside, she turns around.

"Sir, are you not coming?"

"Very well," I reply. "If you wish."

I start walking nervously towards her house. I have seen this house many times before, but have never come this close. I am very nervous. I do not want little Annabelle to get into trouble because of me.

"Mama! Papa! I have someone I want you to meet," she shouts.

Someone with a low, manly voice replies, "Who else is out there?"  
"I am Aria Guirre," I return.

"Come in, come in," he says. "Do not be afraid."

"Please, sit down," says the burly, mustached man.

"I can stay for only just a bit, really," I announce. "I have brought your little Annabelle back home. Somehow she ended up at my estate. But do not get mad at her, she harmed nothing and no one. I will be on my way now."

"Who is it?" An awfully familiar voice asks. Is it—can it be…?

"Thank you for your time, Mr. …?"

"Leon," he returns. "Frederic Leon."

"Any relation to Christoph Leon?" I ask.

"Yes. He's our eldest child."

"Odd. He doesn't look like you…"

"Listen—do not tell him what I tell you. His mother died in childbirth. She was not married, but she was my sister. Since I did not wish for him to be sent to an orphanage, we took him in and raised him as our own. At least I did, because she died before we (my wife and I) were married (but living together). So he does not know."

"Ah, I see."

"Well then. _Au revoir_."

"Hope to see you again," I say.

"Me, too."


	9. IX: Too Much Worrying

Why can't I stop thinking about Christoph? My heart leaps in joy every time I see him, and behind my mask, I blush! No one else has ever made me feel like this! Is it—could it—be true that I am in love? But who would love this monster? He hasn't seen my horrid visage yet, so he has no idea. Surely if he sees me, he will scream or run in terror!

Surgery has never been a real option for me. It was ruled out a very long time ago. Too much distortion, not enough to work with were the reasons that have been given. And believe me, they tried. But whenever it came close to success, my body rejected the prosthetics.

Does he even think of me like I do him? Or is it yet another instance of unrequited love? Like the love that consumed my soul, mind, heart, and body, when my soul was known as _Erik?_ Am I doomed to a pathetic, undeserved, unrequited romance once again?

I should probably stop thinking of Christoph. All this worrying and musing will get me nowhere for sure, and probably get me in trouble, too.


	10. X: A Hard Road Ahead

He came again today. Why does he keep coming? I am nothing to look at and particularly _nothing really worthy of love,_ as my soul cries out in response.

I start to cry, knowing there is a very long and difficult road ahead of me if I am ever to produce an heir to my "cursed" line. Feelings do stir in my heart for Christoph, but I am afraid to act upon these longings. I can tell he is in love with me, but I am unsure of how to reciprocate this love of his…

I sit, here in my study, and let my feelings flow into my music and writing. I may not be in the music room, but it does not matter, this room, too, is soundproofed. I pick up my ancient violin and play a small snatch of the melody, to test it out. I listen closely as my skeletal fingers coax out haunting notes from the well-worn instrument.

There! That part is not quite right. I scratch out the sequence and play around with the notes a bit until I hit the right combination. I play out my frustrations, which stems from deep within my soul, going back to my previous life as the infamous Opera Ghost.

Why must I be put through this? I ask myself. My soul wants to scream out in pain and frustration. Pain that comes from being feared, rejected, mocked, and _unrequited love._ The frustration comes from being totally innocent to the nuances and game of love. I have never had a boyfriend or a true best friend. The closest I came to a boyfriend was a good friend of mine, who was a boy, when I was around eight or nine years old. He was the same age as me, and we quickly became friends. The boy, called Roland, met me one spring in the garden by the woods when I was about eight years old. I was too young yet, as was he, for love, true, but we were very inexperienced, and I was especially so with normal childhood society and customs.

The first time we met, it was in the rose gardens by the woods. For being a girl, I had a lot of boyish tendencies and toys. For example, at that time, I remember playing in the dirt, thinking I was alone as I usually was. We shared a bag of candies he had brought, and played together many times after that warm spring afternoon.


	11. XI: Invitations And Music

I have been invited over for dinner, of all things. Should I accept and go or decline the offer politely? After the kidnapping, I have become even more cautious about going out into public. And it does not matter if I am in my life-like mask or at night, when no one is out and about.

Occasionally I will still take walks or go for a ride on my favorite equine, Nightstar, in the woods surrounding my estate. Of course, that is when I am not busy with my studies, writings, or my most recent venture, music recordings. Already I have had several offers for contracts, but I have turned many of them down. The reason? Because many of these I turned down would have required my presence physically, and that is something I absolutely refuse to do. Others, because they would have complete control of my life—a thing that frightens and disturbs me all the way to my ancient soul. Another reason is because of the perks and freedoms that would come with the "contract".

I have never performed in public, nor appeared for publicity shots. And, if I have it my way, there never will be any. You may call me a recluse, but if you had my face and body, I highly doubt you would want to be thrust into society's prying greedy eyes.


	12. XII: Preparations

I have decided to accept the offer of dinner. I had one condition, though. The condition was that if any photographs taken would not be shared outside the home without my permission or be sold to the media, and in fact, that they would be handed over to me. Personally, I would prefer not to have any taken of me in the first place.

Taking one last glance in my full-length mirror (with my soul screaming out in anger) to make sure nothing is out of place, and I look "good" (what a crock! When have I ever looked _good_?). I still do not have my mask upon my face and I cringe at my horrid visage that is exposed. I relish the moments I can go without my mask, as my face can become rather sore, inflamed, and can even become raw if worn too long without fresh air upon my sensitive skin.

My skin, especially on my face, is extremely sensitive and bruises very easily. Not so much for most of the rest of my body, but my hands, and even worse on my face, my skin easily breaks open, cracks, and cuts. When I play, ride, or write, I must wear gloves of some sort or another. My skin on my face is all too thin; stretched taut as a drumhead, and brittle as old parchment.

I choose an exceptionally lifelike, lightweight mask with a sigh that comes from past experience of pain. Hopefully this will not last very long, as for some reason, my skin is very, very sensitive and very easily irritated lately. Ah, well, we shall see…


	13. XIII: Hypnotize

It is a bit chilly tonight; there is crispness in the air, unlike the past few balmy nights. It is a brisk reminder of the coming autumn, I think to myself as I step out of the car. I lean over and whisper is the chauffeur's ear, "Take the evening off, Michel. You deserve it."

"_Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle,"_ he returns. He leans over, takes my hand in his, raises it to his lips, and kisses it gently. If I had not been wearing my mask, the whole world would have seen my heated blush. _I must learn to control these feelings of mine, or it will be a badly day for the human race around me…_

I walk up to the forbidding door. If I had been anyone else, I would have been scared. But how could I be with such a soul as mine? It does not really intimidate me, as very, very little makes me frightened or intimidated.

I take the heavy knocker in my hand and rap on the door. The knock sounds loud and haunting. It makes me shiver despite myself. _I must get control of myself!_

A small manservant appears at the door. I pull my hat down rakishly, so to speak. Most of my face is now in deep shadow. My eyes, I know by experience, shine yellow like cat's eyes. I consciously constrict my irises and pupils, effectively cutting off the supernatural glow. My eyes appear as dark, perhaps black as I step inside, into the lighted interior. I do _not_ want to be here, I realize almost too late. Something bad is going to happen, I can feel it.

The door slams behind me and I can hear the lock click in place. It puts me in a very alert state of mind. The manservant must have noticed, as he started talking, in a tone that is meant to hypnotize.

I keep trying to shrug off the effects of the voice he is using, when I have an idea. I know I have that power, which is very strong and powerful. Much more so than the puny servant.

I close my eyes and open my mouth. I myself am immune to its effects, but no one else is. Softly at first, I sing a lullaby taught to me by _granpere_, and which I have heard nowhere else. _Granpere_ always said it was a special song, taught to him by his _pere_, and to use it only in dire situations outside the family. In between the lyrics, I insert subtle commands, mostly to stop talking, lead me back to the door, unlock said object, and to then forget everything.


	14. XIV: A Shot In The Dark

I quickly called my driver. Something is not right—I have a feeling that someone is following me, following the car.

"Thank you for taking time out of your freedom tonight to pick me up," I try to apologize.

"No worries, _mademoiselle_," he replies. "May I have the rest of the night off, then?"

"Most certainly."

I am halfway to the door to my own house, thinking I am safe inside my own walls. Almost too late, my ears hear a click, like that of a gun. It takes several seconds, although it seems like hours, before my mind process the diminutive sound. In a panic, I start to run towards the safety of my _granpere_'s home.

A loud crack breaks the stillness of the night air as a bullet that barely missed me slams into the door's wooden frame. A shower of splinters rains down upon the topmost steps. The last things I hear before the darkness consumes me (again) is a muffled pop and the sickening crunch of ripped flesh and shattered bone…


	15. XV: Interlude, Part 1

"Someone! Quick! Call the _gendarmes! Sîl vous plais!_ _Attendez! _Call an ambulance!" A servant called Louis Gerhart shouted. He saw the Lord of the estate, Comte Guirre, be hit by the bullet and fall. So had Michel, but he was busy trying to keep a hold on the young woman's life. Louis was nearly hysterical.

Michel looked at him. "You imbecile! Don't just stand there, go phone the hospital and the _gendarmes_," he growls. "Now!"

Louis runs inside. _Blithering idiot, _Michel thinks to himself. He is very worried. She has lost a large amount of blood, and she may not make it until the ambulance arrives.

"Tell them to meet me in town—by the clinic. That way they won't get lost and will save precious time. Now do it!" Michel snaps.

"Come on, _mademoiselle,_ don't give up," he pleads with her unconscious form. "Who will carry on the bloodline? What will happen to the estate? Please do not die!"

One reason he is so worried is that there is no heir to the title, male or female, and no will. Although there were explicit instructions about the inheritance in her grandfather's will, it is unknown if it would hold over if she died. There were rumors that a caretaker would be named until a highly secret event happened, but it is not known whether it is true. As Michel drove, it is quite possible he broke quite a lot of rules, one of which was the speed limit…

"Out of our way!" Shouted the paramedics.

"She's lost a lot of blood. She needs a transfusion right now!"

Inside the ambulance it was a scene of absolute chaos. And through it all, our hero felt nothing, absolutely nothing. Her vital signs are extremely low, and her life is hanging by a single thread.


	16. XVI: Interlude, Part 2

"Where is she?" The young man demands.

"Who, _monsieur_?" the receptionist responds without moving nary an eyebrow. Things like this happen a lot in big hospitals and trauma centers, this she knows for a fact.

"Guirre—the Comtess de Guirre! Aria!" The man is nearly frantic with exhaustion, having come a long ways, all the way from the area around Rouen.

"Hmm… Let's see," the lady muttered. It was becoming more and more visible that the man was becoming thoroughly impatient.

"That patient is in surgery, _monsieur._ May I ask your name, _monsieur_?"

"Christoph Leon, I am about as close to family as she has. And I have no doubt that she would like a _private_ room."

"Your request will be taken, given the situation. Would you mind waiting?"

"No, I wouldn't mind," Christoph replies.

"There are magazines, puzzles, and books, if you would care to use to take your mind off this stressful situation," she offers.

"_Merci, madame_," he responds with a sigh, releasing the tension he had built up within himself. The receptionist returns back to her work.

Five hours pass when the doctor finally comes out.

"The good news: _Mademoiselle_ Guirre has survived. The bad news is that right now she is still unconscious, but stable now, and it will take a _long_ time to recover from her injuries. No matter how much she recovers, she will, no doubt, never be quite the same again."

"How so?" Christoph pleads for an answer.

"For one, she'll always have a scar—we tried our best, but it cannot be helped. The other is that we were, for the most part, able to piece her shattered scapula back together, but some pieces were absolutely too small. She also broke several ribs and snapped her tibia and fibula in her right leg, which happened most likely when she fell. She will walk again, but probably never without a limp. Also she may not have full range of movement again with that shoulder."

"But will she recover?"

"That is unknown, but we hope so. Right now she needs her rest. Go home and get some sleep. We'll contact you with any new developments."¬


	17. XVII: Mechanical Lullaby

My head feels as if it is stuffed with cotton, and my body aches with pain. I don't even want to open my eyes for fear of the pain it might cause.

_Where am I?_ I wonder. I groan in pain. _Last thing I remember is running towards the door and then hearing a sickening crunch, _I think to myself. I open my eyes finally, and to my surprise (and delight) it does not hurt to have them open! At first everything is blurry, but my eyes soon find focus once again. Once again I wonder: _Where am I?_

The room around me is painted in soothing, muted colors that, frankly, make me want to empty my stomach. There is medical equipment within my line of sight. The sight of these machines makes me shudder in fear, cascading my mind and body with new and more pain. Emotions such as fear, anger, and indignity rush through my veins.

A hospital! _I am in a hospital_, I realize. I want to scream, but I know I can't, because hat would only garner me even more unwanted attention. Unwanted attention inevitably leads to stares, disgust, and ridicule—all things I want to avoid at all costs. I do not want to be exhibited, experimented on, or displayed as an attraction or medical curiosity! Especially as I cannot feel the familiar weight of my mask… _I wonder what they think of my face, or rather, lack of one…_

A knock sounds at the door. I try to speak, but I am still too weak and my throat is too sore to even do that… A man enters, dressed in doctoral clothes and accessories. I blink my eyes. He looks at me directly, but he is not staring…yet.

"You're awake!" He says cheerfully. I nod slightly.

"How are you feeling?" he asks. He is beginning to _annoy_ me with his _cheerfulness_.

"Painful," I respond. I am horrified by the sound of my voice. It is barely a rasp; barely audible, and so scratchy it is painful to my sensitive ears. Tears start to roll down my face, welling out of my deep eye sockets, in sorrow for the loss of my powerful voice.

"Soon as you are able to be off the life support long enough to withstand transport, we will move you to a retreat in the country to recover. Normally we wouldn't do it without permission or for just anybody, but seeing your past, status, and quite frankly, your circumstances (in other words, your looks), it would be safe to say that you would want and need your privacy, correct?" He states.

"What kind of retreat? Is it truly private? Secluded?"

"To be frank, as the Americans say, it is private and secluded, _mademoiselle,_ but is also a recovery and rehab center for burn and accident victims. However, each patient does not need to see each other, and many times they would rather not be seen. We will put you in a 'cottage' by yourself. That is, if you accept," he offers so temptingly.

"Sounds reasonable," I return. "I accept your offer."

"We'll do it in a couple days, so try and get some rest."

As he leaves, he closes the drapes and turns the lights off. I find I am very, very tired. The soft sounds of the machines make a strange, mechanical lullaby.


	18. XVIII: Release

Well, they finally saw fit to release me to the rehab center. The people who helped me settle in were apparently unafraid of my horrid visage. They took no notice, and did not cringe! I wonder if humanity is perhaps not a lost cause after all.

They say I will probably have to stay here for at least another three months, but most likely six months. All this time will be spent on rest, recuperation, and rebuilding. Not rebuilding my face, no, that has been tried many, many times before, and each time, almost predictably, it failed. Rebuilding the muscles, so to speak, increasing their strength, flexibility, endurance, and mobility are the goals that they hope to achieve here.


	19. XIX: A Very Welcome Surprise

They have decided I was ready to be released. I don't know if it is out of humanity's morbid curiosity or just plain friendship, but they all seem to have felt sad to see me go. No feelings of pity—or are there? I cannot tell, I have become far too cynical in this new life of mine.

Every now and then that part of my back and sometimes my shoulder still hurt terribly. But it is never for very long. So I believe I can live with it.

I arrive home in silence. _Where is everybody?_ I tell my driver to bring my belongings inside. As I unlock and open the door, the smell of dust assaults my non-existent nose. Has no one cleaned lately?

"Hello?" I ask into the silence. It is funny that I should smell dust, as I do not see any sitting on anything. I also do not see any sitting on anything. I also do not smell the distinct smell the distinct scent of mildew, mold, or mustiness. What could be going on?

I move further inside, into the grand library, when the lights blaze on, blinding my cat's eyes that had adjusted to the darkness. I throw my arm up over my eyes in an effort to block the pain.

"Surprise! Welcome back!" Cries of this nature ring out from all around the spacious room. Who invited them? I certainly didn't. Who let them in? I cringe inside at this blatant exposure and publicity.

"Who—who are you?" I manage to stammer. _Damn! All that protective self-confidence and power I place in my voice—gone! In one instant of surprise, all my defenses and strength crumbles like a pile of bricks or rotten stonework!_

A figure emerges from the crowd—it is that young man who was so enamored with me! Christoph! Did he set this up? Did he know I was coming home today? What does he have planned? My humiliation in front of all these strangers? More cruelty? Exposure of my horrid visage, my inescapable curse?

He walks up to me and gives me a hug. I stiffen out of fear and anxiety—no one has ever _tried_ to touch me like that out if their own volition… So basically, yes, I am very inexperienced in human interaction, society, and love. But can you really blame me?

He lets go of me and takes an object from his pocket. What is it? It appears to be a jewelry box of some sort. He gets down on one knee. _Mon dieu,_ is he really going to do what I am thinking he is? Does he truly want to spend the rest of his life with me, a monster? He opens the box. Inside is a tiny, plain gold band with an almost imperceptible design in small rubies and violet red sapphires inset in the shapes of leaves entwining the golden band.

"_Mademoiselle _Aria Guirre," he declares. "Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife, _sîl vous plais?"_

"_Oui, monsieur."_


End file.
